Doctor
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: Minisequel to Practice Makes Perfect. Mark gets sick for the first time since his diagnosis and Roger takes charge. Fluff and slash. Mark/Roger. Marker. Oneshot.


**A/N: Well based on the poll I put up, everyone seems to want a sequel to PMP… Which I'm perfectly happy to provide. I miss that story to death. X( I took some time out of my day to think up an idea for one and here I am. PMP was obviously named after the Cute is What We Aim For song, "Practice Makes Perfect" and this one is named after their song "Doctor". Enjoy it!**

Disclaimer: _After all this time, RENT still isn't mine._

**Doctor**

The sun was setting on the two-hundred and fifty-second day of Roger and Mark's relationship when it happened.

Mark started to cough.

Now, a year ago, this wouldn't have been a big deal. He would have apologized repeatedly (he was doing this anyways) and done his best to keep quiet about it (and this) and stayed as far away from Roger as possible until the sickness passed. (God knew that he was doing his best to do that one, too.) Usually it was just a common cold, easily brushed off in a few days' time, and they could go back to their usual arrangement.

Unfortunately, _this_ was the first time Mark had been sick since his diagnosis. And according to the little pills he took twice daily and the beeper attached to his belt, he couldn't afford to get sick any more than Roger could. He froze, eyes slowly sliding up to meet Roger's as the other man stopped short of entering the room to stare at him in horror, mind racing with ways to downplay this.

"Roger-"

"Bed. Now." Mark blinked owlishly, unused to this brisk tone of Roger's. The devastated look on his face had quickly been replaced with the familiar set-jaw determination that always meant there were very good or very bad things on the horizon.

It was the look he'd been wearing that day, over a year ago, when Mark had nearly been raped. When Roger came charging in and rescued him like some bohemian knight in a leather jacket.

Obedient as ever, Mark slowly sat down on the edge of their bed- it still felt funny saying it, _their _bed instead of Roger's bed- and looked up at him, opening his mouth to protest. The expression on Roger's face stopped him, making him bite his lip, feeling almost _guilty, _as though he could control whether or not he caught a cold. The guitarist disappeared for a few moments and returned bearing an armful of medical supplies that Mark hadn't even known were in their possession.

"Has that been in the medicine cabinet this whole time-?"

"Shut up. Open your mouth."

"That's kinky-"

Roger curled his lip, shoving a thermometer into the filmmaker's open mouth in the midst of his sentence and instructed brusquely, "Under your tongue."

Still disconcerted by Roger's professional attitude, Mark complied and tried not to grimace too much. Roger could at _least_ have dusted the thing off first… After a minute the timer beeped and he gratefully opened his mouth as Roger snatched it out, squinting at the numbers, visibly bristling. "Ninety-nine. You're hot. Here, drink some of this."

Mark looked down at the bottle of Tylenol in his hands with a short laugh. "Roger, I don't need cough syrup. I'll be fine. Maybe some tea-"

"_Take your damn medicine._"

"Careful. You're starting to sound like me." Pausing, staring at his lover with some degree of incredulity, Mark nevertheless humored him. Roger could get scary when he wasn't given what he wanted, and while Mark knew that he shouldn't be letting this kind of behavior go- after all, if he didn't discipline Roger and his little temper tantrums then who would?- he also had a slight headache.

As he twisted the cap off of the questionably expired bottle of grape cough syrup his eye twitched slightly at the sharp twinge that seemed to be radiating from the middle of his forehead.

Alright. A nasty headache. Whatever.

"Good boy." Condescendingly patting the top of his head, Roger seemed to move down a line on his mental checklist, smiling tightly. "Now I just need to take you down to the clinic-"

Nearly spitting out a mouthful of the bitter liquid, Mark snorted and swallowed, glaring balefully up at him. "You can't make me."

"Do you want to bet on that, Cohen?"

"Cohen?" He made a face. "You haven't called me that in months."

"Well I just did, so there. Live with it." The rocker rolled his eyes, and if Mark didn't know any better he would have said he looked totally at ease. He grabbed for the filmmaker's arm, yanking him to his feet. "Come on."

"Roger!" Mark covered his mouth, leaning as far from as he could without wriggling his wrist free. (he knows from pleasant experience that that's a useless endeavor) "Don't come near me! You might-"

"I'm sick already," Roger sniffs, dragging him out of the bedroom and towards the front door. "And I'm bound to catch it anyways. We fuck often enough."

Blushing at the blatant way he says it, Mark just shakes his head. "It's winter. It's hard enough keeping you healthy-"

"Well now I have to keep you healthy, too. Ever think of that?" Aggravated, the guitarist meets his eyes with a challenge. He tugs at his arm meaningfully. "Don't make me drag you."

"You couldn't if you tried." He knows he sounds petulant but he doesn't care, still trying to reach the wall so that he can hang onto it somehow. Mark hates the free clinic, honestly. It's the setting of some particularly horrifying memories that he would prefer to forget, and besides, Roger is going to catch somebody else's cold if he doesn't catch Mark's by the time they leave.

"Oh? Are you trying to tell me I can't pick you up?" Quirking an eyebrow, Roger seems to take this as a serious challenge- Mark winced as he released his wrist, backing away.

"Roger, don't… Roger I'm serious! Roger-!"

The last part is squeaked in an undignified and far less than manly fashion as the rocker ducked down and hoisted him up over his shoulder, grunting with exertion. Mark thwacked him on the back in utter annoyance, trying to wriggle into a position that he can at least breathe properly in. "_Roger_," he complained, but he knows better than to struggle now that he's been defeated.

"You're going whether you like it or not." Roger smirked, twisting around to look at him, and if Mark were anybody else he might have missed the affection lacing his expression. He kissed his boyfriend's hip chastely, carrying him towards the door.

"I'll walk!" Mark groaned, pounding on his back again. The impact of the blow is softened by the leather of his jacket and somehow, he doesn't think it's very effective. Still. "Roger, put me the hell down, you're going to fall down the stairs."

"And then we'll both end up splattered all over the bottom. How romantic." He can practically feel the grin in his voice and he rolled his eyes, wriggling some more, still bent uncomfortably over Roger's shoulders as they descend the first flight.

"What do I have to do?" Frowning, he switched tactics. "I'll owe you a blowjob. Or I'll let you tie me up-"

"I could get both of those things out of you tonight without agreeing to anything," the songwriter said drily, his grip as tight as ever. "I wouldn't say no to a threesome though."

"Right. Because everyone wants to sleep with the two positive queers from the top floor. Are you going to put me down?!"

They reached the third floor landing and Roger set him down with a dramatic sigh. "You're really fuckin' whiny, aren't you."

"That's why you love me." Dusting himself off, Mark glanced up with a pout and met his dancing eyes. "I don't need to go to the clinic, Rog. It's just a little cold. I'll live."

The rocker instantly scowled. "We're going." As he started to reach for Mark again the filmmaker backs towards the stairs they'd just descended, shaking his head.

"How about this," he tried placating him, hands up in surrender. "We stay home and I let you dote on me until I'm better. I don't even get to complain. And you can call me Marky and treat me like I'm five." He would have kept rambling but he was pretty sure the contemplative look on Roger's face meant that he was getting somewhere.

After a moment he reluctantly nodded, backing off and giving Mark an appraising look. "Does that start now?"

Mark grimaced but nodded. "I guess…"

"Great." A wicked smirk graced the other man's features and Mark eyed him suspiciously as he was lead back up the stairs. "Just call me doctor. To bed with you!"

God, this was going to be the longest two weeks of his life. Or more. Or maybe less?

He felt the beginning of a sneeze tickling at his nose and knew that it definitely wasn't going to be less. Damn it.

And Roger just kept on grinning.

He sighed. "Doctor Roger," he conceded, the words thrilling him more than they should have.

Hmm… Well. Perhaps there's a bright side after all.


End file.
